time seems to operate on a different level when i’m with you. on the kind of slippery, floaty level that you can’t grasp solidly with your fingertips, but that pulsates away from you and speeds up, spins up on a whim

and slow, drag, pull, when it gets in a tizzy. you have to wonder, is it you or me? or is the smoke that envelops us, clouds us, moves us and accentuates our curves and farts? weeks slip by, like gleeful fugitives. months hurl by, easy as the flick of a lighter, as the click of ignition of a smooth motorcycle.

soon the cinders of summer are at our feet, too accustomed to gravity to offer much resistance to the elements. and we are all but consumed, neglectful of our wounds, unkind to change.


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